The Tattoo
by Ashley A
Summary: What's the story behind Angel's tattoo? Post Shanshu, slightly AU
1. chapter one

The past…she never lets you go, does she? – Doyle She never does. - Angel 

            I trace my hand lazily over the black ink markings on his back, questions in my mind, but not wanting to wake him.

            "Hmmm?" comes a sleepy voice, and I wince slightly, feeling bad I've woken him after the days of no sleep he's gotten.  Trying to recover from your final battle takes awhile.  I should know.

            "Shhhh.  Go back to sleep," I whisper, and pillow my head next to his, wrapping my arms around his chest.

            A rumbly sound reaches my ears, and I smile.  _If that isn't a self satisfied sound, I'm a monkey's uncle._

            "What are you doing?" he asks, and turns over.

            "Well, I was trying to not wake you, but the best laid plans…"

            "I'm okay.  I feel like I've been asleep for days," he tells me, and I touch the tip of his nose.  "You have been.  But, prophecy-coming-true aside, you've been busy.  You need your sleep."

            He puts one elbow under his head, giving me the crooked grin.  "Buffy, I feel like I've been napping for 250 years.  I've done enough sleeping.  It's time to wake up."  We try to be serious for a few moments, but the reality of what's happened sets in again, and we grin at each other like idiots.

            Shanshu's this prophecy Wesley discovered what seems like a billion years ago.  What it comes down to, is the 'vampire with a soul, if he helps enough people, will get his final reward and become human.'  Guess he helped enough people.  I'm not complaining here.

            He wraps his arms around me now, and pulls me into his chest, sighing and closing his eyes.  

            "I never thought I would feel this again," he murmurs, and I sigh in return, agreeing completely.  

            If I had known I would get this as a reward for my slayer services, I would have slayed a litlle faster.  Or tried to anyway.

            A few hours later I wake again, and automatically reach for him.  He's not there.  I sit up, blinking into the brightness of the room, and see him standing by the window, wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe I think belonged to my dad.

            "Angel?  What are you doing?"

            His head turns toward me, and he gives me a smile.  "Basking," he says, and I remember my usage of that same word so many years ago. 

            I get out of the bed, and throw on his discarded pj top.  "Sun's nice, huh?"  I stand next to him, and put one arm around his waist.  "But you've been seeing it for a while now.  What about all that necree…neco…whatever-tempered glass?"

            He shakes his head.  "Not remotely the same feeling."

            I rub a hand on his back, and that gets me thinking again.  About the tattoo there.  It's still there.

            "What?" he asks, and I try to blow him off.

            "Nothing, nothing.  I'm just, um, processing," I say, trying to throw a big word at him to throw him off.  Nothing doing.

            "Buffy," he starts, and I know I'm caught.

            "I'm just thinking.  About how much I know about you.  And how much I don't know."

            He frowns.  "What do you mean?"

            "Well, it's just…we've know each other for so long…but there's one thing I always wondered about," I say, and he raises his eyebrows.

            "…Yes?" comes the reply.

            "What's the deal with your tattoo?" I say in a rush, and he just gives me The Look.

            "There's no deal.  It's just a tattoo."

            I face him, and give him MY look.  "Bullshit, Angel.  Everything you've ever done has a 'story' attached to it.  Or a reason.  So spill, buddy.  You sleep with a girl, you marry her, you gotta tell her everything."

            He sighs, exhasperated, and walks to the velvet chaisez lounge across from the bed.  "That is one story that might take a while."

            "So tell me," I say, and sit next to him, curling my legs underneath me, my arms clasped around my knees.

            He faces me, and says, "Well, there was this time, back in the fifties…"

            Los Angeles, 1950.

            He wanders in a back alley, trying not to think of the proximity of the local blood bank, and how easy it would be to just sneak in the back and take what he needed. 

            His back stings, the newly done ink still healing.  He needs blood to make it heal faster.  Angel wonders if the tattoo will disappear altogether, or just heal correctly.  He'd be slightly miffed it it didn't last.  Getting the thing done wasn't the best experience he'd ever had. 

            Having done a favor for the artist, his buried alter ego had been pleased at Angel's choice to get the tattoo done as payment for services rendered.  

            The gryphon had been Angel's pick, but adding the 'A' to it was not something he consciously remembered asking for.

            The wizened chinese man, known only as Hong to his customers and acquaintances, had smiled knowingly at Angel's choice of design, telling him, "Your heritage.  Good idea."

            Angel had lain on his stomach on the man's simple table, shirt thrown over the chair in the corner.  He had expected it to hurt, but Hong, being an artist, kept it simple.  In fact, the feeling was quite good, and Angel shut his eyes, laying his forehead on his crossed arms, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him.  Drifted off…not meaning too.

            When he awoke, the ancient man was gone, and Angel's shirt was laid gently across his legs.  He sat up, disoriented, shaking his head to clear it.  Tried to look at his back, twisting his neck around to look at the tattoo. Could only see the edge of it.

            As he was getting up, Hong had come back into the room, carrying a small bottle of red liquid, and wearing a smile.

            "You like?" he had asked.

            "Well, I can't really see it, so I'll take your word for it," Angel had replied.  

            "Ah, no mirrors.  Right.  Well, the gryphon came out perfectly, but adding the 'A' was a good extra touch."

            "Wait, what?  What 'A'?"  

            Hong stared at him, obviously confused.  "The one you asked me to add when I was almost done."

            Angel gave him raised eyebrows.  "I fell asleep.  I didn't ask you for anything."  The old man frowned at him.  "Well, someone asked me in your voice from your mouth to add the 'A' at the feet of the gryphon."

            Angel had stood up, pulling his shirt on, quickly buttoning it.  "Hong, if this is your idea of a joke…"

            "No, Angel, no joke.  Why would I kid you?" Hong answered, backing away slightly from the agitated vampire.

            "I guess you wouldn't…I've gotta go."  

            "Wait, here, some blood!  To heal….hello?  Angel?"  

            The only thing to mark his passing had been the swinging of the beaded curtain over Hong's door.

            Back at the Hyperion, Angel had stripped off his shirt and twisted around, trying to see the tattoo, and failing miserably.  Angry, he decided to go out and eat something, not wanting to think of the implications of what Hong had said.

            _You asked me to add the 'A'.  So I did._

            But Angel knew he had been asleep.

            _Is he that close to the surface again?_

            He dives at a fat rat trying to scurry by, in a hurry to escape so obvious a predator.

No such luck.  Angel breaks its neck, and drains it in one gulp.  Slightly disgusted, he tosses the body in the giant trash pile next to the back entrace of the local Italian eatery.  After what he's been used to lately, the rat's blood tastes like water. 

            _Not a good idea to get too used to it, not good to remember the taste and how it makes you feel. _

            He plunges his hands into his pockets, and walks out of the alley, and heads toward his car.  Griffith park is only a few miles away, and he needs a good quiet place to think.

            Leg propped on a railing at the edge of the park, Angel smokes a cigarette and reflects.  He watches the people milling about; little kids and their parents emerging from the observatory; young teens holding hands; families and single people and old people; all blissfully unaware of the dangerous monster that hides in their midst.

            For years now he's tried to hide in plain site; associating with humans as little as possible.  Helping a few helpless demons here and there if they can offer him something.  The tattoo was a whim, he had honestly thought that it would fade completely once his skin healed.  

            Surprise surprise, it had actually stayed.  Complete with added 'A'.  

            _Egotistical enough, _he thinks.  _Just like him._

But what frightens him enough to make his hands shake as he smokes, is the idea that Angelus is close enough to talk when he wants to.  Close enough to make an apperance while Angel wasn't paying attention.

            Has he gotten lax?  Has he gotten too complacent?  Has he started to enjoy the taste of human blood again…even if it's cold?

            Anything but, he feels.  So constantly on his guard, he literally has spoken with no humans other than his bellman at the hotel for the past month or so.  Trying desperately to stay disconnected.  

            He's been feeling it again lately.  The urge, the drive.  The nasty hunger that rears its head when he's in one place for too long.

            It takes advantage of his relative comfort and sneaks in, poisoning his environment and making it impossible to stay in one place for any length of time.  Slips up, makes him kill one too many animals or make one too many trips to the blood bank.  Makes people start to be aware of him.

            And when that happens, he can feel Angelus boiling just below the surface, screaming in his mind _take that one no one will miss her I need it can't you taste the heat the life the hot hot hot sweet wet blood _and then he's on to another city or another state again.

            Trouble is, he actually likes Los Angeles.  Kind of his type of city.  Sprawling, impersonal, easy to hide in.  Except from the one being he really wants to hide from.

            _How do you hide from yourself?_

            A running noise reaches his ears, harsh panting and a hightened fear smell.  Without warning, Angel turns to catch whatever thing is hunting him, vamp face having slipped over him without him thinking about it.

            His hand shoots out a grabs it by the throat, starting to squeeze.  A scream shakes his bloodlust, and as his face changes back, the little boy he is holding flails at his hand, trying to release his neck from Angel's grasp.

            Horrified, Angel drops the child and stammers, "Oh, my God, I'm sorry, I thought you were something…someone else…are you okay?"

            The kid drops to his feet, and pelts away, holloring for his parents.  Angel knows now is the time to book it, and he does just that, hightailing it to his car before the kid's parents can get the cops.

            He roars out of the parking lot, and heads for the freeway, quaking inside.

            Now.

            I stare at him, stunned into silence.

            He stares at the floor, twisting his hands together.

            "You…throttled a kid?"  I finally ask.

            "I didn't know it was a kid," he answers, visibly upset.  "All I heard was running, and a thundering heartbeat.  And it smelled like fear, so…I assumed something was attacking me, and tried to defend myself accordingly."

            I stand up, pacing in front of him.  "Okay, so back up a minute.  You got the tat as payment for something you did for this Hong guy.  But you fell asleep while he was doing it.  When you woke up, the design had an added feature to it?  One you didn't remember asking for," I pause, making sure I was remembering all the pieces correctly.  He nods.

            "And this bothered you so much because you thought Angelus was trying to emerge again."

            He nods again, hunching miserably into himself.  "You don't know how much I wanted every day just to let him, Buffy.  I was tired of fighting it.  Tired of feeling the weight of my soul.  I was stretched to the breaking point.  And he almost did when I grabbed that kid," he finishes. 

            "But there's something I don't get," I tell him, and looks up at me finally, and I'm shocked at the look in his eyes.  It's like he's not even in there.  I approach him, and touch his face gently.

            "How was he doing this?  I thought the presence of your soul was enough to weigh him down."

            He sighs, and covers my hand with his.  "I had been drinking human blood again, Buffy.  His strength was returning."

            Wait.  What did he just say?

            TBC. 

            __


	2. chapter two

The Tattoo chapter two.  Same disclaimer as before.

Not sure where this one is taking me…but I promise it should be interesting.

Enjoy!

            Then.

            After reaching the hotel, Angel practically runs to his room.  Hands still tremoring, he goes for the icebox and the liquid contained there. Gulps it out of the bottle before he knows what he's doing.  Ice cold O positive slides down his throat- and his face changes at the taste.

            Shocked, the bottle drops from his fingers as he touches his ridged forehead.

            Shattered glass and blood coat his shoes- _go for the real stuff baby- I'm always here, inside- a puny little soul can't keep me down-_

Howling in frustration, he grabs his car keys and heads out the door he hadn't even bothered to lock.

            Driving aimlessly down Sunset, he watches as people mill about, waiting for the lights to change.  He doesn't really know where he's going or what he's doing, but he knows that he can't be alone with _himself _right now.

            He passes a couple arguing animatedly, kids waiting for movies, and the Hollywood sign finally.

            Mulholland beckons, and he follows his instinct.

            High above Los Angeles proper, Angel sits on the hood of his car and smokes another cigarette, a stupid human habit, but the action makes him feel a little more normal.

            _I can do this, I can fight him.  I don't need human blood.  Screw the blood bank.  Yeah, it's convienent, but…if it's doing what I think it's doing…_

Human blood had always been a powerful thing to him.  To all vampires of course, but Angelus revelled in it like Dru had revelled in her madness, or Spike had revelled in, well, Dru.  And railroad yards.

            It's taste was like a drug in his system.  Thinking back now, Angel had begun to realize that it wasn't really the feeding, the necessity of feeding that had turned him on so much.  It was the idea that he, simple little Liam from Galway, had the power of life and death in his hands.  Anyone's life.  Everyone's death.  Priests, teachers, governers, dock workers, nuns, maids, anyone.  Anyone.  They could cut a swath through a village and no one could do a thing.

            No one except some simple gypsies and there simple favored daughter he just happened to have killed.

            Blowing out a puff of tobacco smoke, he considered what he was doing, and why it was so easy now to make excuses and treat the ease of the blood bank as a trouble-free way to prolong his existance.

            He had lived on rats and vermin for so long, since the turn of the century really, that discovering the blood bank and _well hell, if I pay them I can always find a willing employee to help me out.  Or…I could just go in there and take what I need._

            So that's how it had started.  Paying for his weekly supply of blood, and then after a while not even paying any more.  Just sneaking in and taking what he wanted.

            Not stealing, right?  Just another way of surviving, just like everyone else.

            _Except I'm not like everyone else.  I'm a demon with a soul.  And that demon seems to be knocking down the prison I made for him._

_            Is it the blood that's doing it?  Oh my god, that's it, isn't it?_

            Angel starts abruptly, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.  Or a ton of blessed crosses, whichever.

            Human blood, that thing that was so powerful and such a source of pride and importance to Angelus _but really Liam, _was responsible for bringing him back from his slumber.

            The one thing Angel knew he absolutely did not want to happen.

            He stubbs out his cigarette, pitching it into the darkness, about to get back into his car and move on, just like he always does when things get to the poing where he can't deal.

            He likes L.A.  But not enough to stay there when his vicious alter ego has an easy way of coming out.

            The proof of that lies in stark black ink on his back, the bold 'A' testimony to his presence in Angel.  

            He opens the door of his car, and puts his foot in.

            In the next second he is lying flat on his back, shockwaves of pain running up and down his spine, and through his smarting, watery eyes he can see people in masks gazing down at him, guns pointed at him.  Smoke pours from the barrell of one of the guns, and one of the faceless people turns to the one with the smoking weapon.

            "Damn it, Hennessy, I knew that thing wouldn't work."

            "It took him down, didn't it?  Now get the nets before his strength comes back."

            The man points the barrel of the gun at him, and a blue light arcs between the weapon and Angel's chest.

             He can only scream briefly before all is black.

TBC.  


	3. chapter three

Tattoo 3.

A/N:  thanks to all my reviewers, I really appreciate the comments.  I hope you like where this is going…

One comment:  I don't know if Angel knew about the Council and the Slayer lore, but I'm assuming he did.  So let's go with that….

            A few moments pass, and things begin to clear for him.  He tests the bonds around his hands; the fools used regular rope.  Almost too easy.  He sureptitiously pops the ties around his wrists, but keeps his hands in front of his chest, listening to the four men arguing with each other.

            "We need to contain him before he wakes," one was saying.  The others didn't seem to be so sure.

            "Look, Hennessy, just because your toy worked once doesn't mean it'll work again.  I don't trust this guy.  He's got too much of a rep.  Besides, who cares if he has a soul?  Doesn't mean he'll treat us any better.  We shocked him for god's sake," replies one of the other men, a shorter, stockier one with blond hair.  "I don't trust him, and I don't appreciate the council sending us on this errand without telling us who we were dealing with."

            "Please, Markus.  He hasn't been violent towards humans for a long time.  The scourge days are long passed.  Plus, you know the council.  They're not ones for exactly explaining stuff."

            Angel decides now is the time to get the drop on these guys, and before they can blink, he's up and has taken down two of the men without even breaking a sweat.  Clonking their heads together works just fine.

            He is on the man with the gun a second later.  Face morphed, he bares his fangs and tells the stockier man, "So, I get your story or I become peckish.  It's your choice.  Your friend may not forgive you, so I would choose wisely."

            The blond man, Markus, swallows and answers quickly.  "Alright, please just let him go.  Don't hurt us, Angelus.  We're not here to harm you…"

            Angel clocks the man with the gun in the temple, and he drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

            "I don't go by that name any more.  Or isn't the council up on me?"

            Markus blanches, and replies.  "Wait.  You know about the council?"

            Angel smirks, shaking his head.  "Most vampires know about the Watcher's council.  You're not exactly quiet about your existance.  At least in the demon world anyway.  What's with that?  You'd think a covert group of researchers would want to be at least somewhat covert.  Especially considering your connection to the slayer line."

            The man gets whiter, if that's possible.  "We're not researchers, or council members ourselves.  We're just the hunt and gather team.  Testing new weapons."

            Angel stares the man down.  "What the hell are you doing in Los Angeles?"

            "There's been rumors you were here.  And obviously the Watcher diaries aren't exactly up on your recent exploits.  Plus we're looking at a possible Hellmouth up the coast, so…combining trips, basically," the man stammers, and suddenly becomes aware he's giving away too much information.

            "That's all you're getting out of me, Angelus- I mean Angel.  You can do what you want to us.  I don't know anything else."

            Angel grasps that the man is telling the truth.  He can hear Markus' heartbeat, but it's racing rhythm is from fear, not from lying.

            "So, I'm just a convienent target for you," he asks suspiciously, still not sure why they had found him so easily.  How had they known where he was going?  Or had it been just a coincidence?

            "I just told you, we are interested in your story, but we really just happened to be out on weapons practice.  You weren't being followed, I swear.  Just let us go, I'll try to get the Council off your back."

            Angel steps close to the man, so close he can smell his sweat, and the rancid odor of whatever the man had had for dinner.  He feels a slight twinge of guilt as the man's fear overwhelms him, which quickly turns to disgust as Markus' bladder lets go.

            "You won't try.  You will get them to back off.  Or they're going to hear about Angelus…personally.  You get me?"

            The man nods frenetically, blabbering out, "Yes, I will.  No problem, you won't hear from us again."

            Angel steps back, and notices the others are starting to stir.  He doesn't want to have to hurt them again, so he melts into the trees and heads back for the area where he had parked his car.

            The next night Angel sits silently in his room at the Hyperion.  Brooding.  Which is certainly a skill he's honed over the past 50 years or so.

            The open bottle of blood next to him is almost empty, and as he contemplates the weirdness of the past day, he swigs from the bottle, not really noticing it.

            _Hungryletsogooutthiscoldshitisn'tenoughdon'tyouknowi'malwaysheremymarkisonyounowletsgotothebloodbankormaybejustouthunting_

His head snaps up at this, and fear steals over his undead heart.

            He wishes again for the thousandth time he could see the tattoo.     

            He looks at the bottle, and grimaces when he notices that it's almost empty.  Didn't he just get this one?

            What's with the Council, anyway?  Had he really just been a convienent target, or was there some other agenda?  Why couldn't they just go on up the coast, or deal with their current slayer, or whatever the hell it is they normally do?  Why was he so interesting?  He stands suddenly, and crosses the room, looking out the window at the city below.

            _Heythebankisonlyafewblocksawayletsgo_

He shakes his head violently, and grips the frame of the window.  He doensn't need human blood to survive, he knows, but…it's so much better.  No nasty aftertaste.  And so easy to get, he doesn't have to hurt anyone, and no one's the wiser.

            Wait…did he just think that it was better?  Since when did the taste come into play?  His guilt complex had always made that part very easy to ignore.  Why was it suddenly such a big deal?  And why was his stomach feeling as if he hadn't eaten in days?  

            From his vantage point in the hotel, he watches as several young women cross the street below him, and he closes his eyes, reaching out to get a whiff of their scent.  Perfume, sweat, and…pumping, warm, human blood.  He takes a great sniff, and is overwhelmed with dizzyness and a longing he hasn't felt in decades.

            His back throbs suddenly, and his hand flies upward, trying to figure out where the pain is coming from.

            He encounters wetness, which is extremely odd.  What's even odder is the red dripping mess that's on his hand when he brings it back around to look at it.

            His tattoo is bleeding.

            He can only stare at his hand in shock, as the liquid drip, drip, drips onto the threadbare hotel carpet, as the overhead fan turns in a mocking time with the noise.

TBC. 


	4. chapter four

A/N: remember this is a/u, so go with it.

            As he stares in shock at his hand, Angel is only sure of one thing.  He needs to feed.  Now.  

            He hasn't felt the hunger like this in years.  And he doesn't know why.  And his back is bleeding down his spine into the waistband of his pants.  And that's not a good thing.

            He grabs the bottle that he has left sitting on one of the tables next to his bed, and glugs it down.  Notices something, and lowers the bottle slowly to eye level.

            _Human blood O positive strain 6a78877_

_            For test use only._

            "Ow!" comes the cry as the blond man in the white coat is thrown up against the wall of the blood bank.  He swipes at the trickle of liquid running into his mouth from his newly broken nose, and looks around, expecting another hit.

            A face full of angry vampire is what he gets.

            "Explain this." A glass bottle with red residue left inside swims into the man's view, and he tries to focus on what the livid demon in front of him wants him to say.

            "Well, it's a bottle of human blood.  Just like the others I sold…gave you a few days ago."

            Angel shakes his head, and spits out, "No.  Not like the others.  This says something about test use only.  And it has a 'strain number' on it.  What does that mean?  What the hell are you doing to me? All of the bottles I got this week say the same thing.  Get explainy.  Now."

            The man slowly slumps to the pavement, and Angel follows, clutching the bottle and trying to contain his rage.  He can feel him there, just below the surface, and screaming to get out.

            "We got some of this stuff donated.  Anonymous.  They just said to give it to you when you came to get your stuff.  We didn't ask questions, they gave us a lot of money, you know?"

            Angel stills, absorbing what the bank lacky has just said.  "Anonymous?  I find that extremely hard to believe.  Especially some organization who is willing to give you money, without any kind of acknowledgement?  Take me inside.  Show me the records."

            He pulls the man up by his collar, and marches him in the back door.

            While the unfortunate blood bank employee sleeps on the floor, Angel reads and rereads the documents found for him by the blond man.

            _Human blood O positive strain 6a78877_

_            For test use only_

_            Experimental hormone number 19995 type r- rage._

_            Use with extreme caution._

_            This report property of Wolfram and Hart science division._

_            Do not remove from lab._

            He stares out at the city, trying to piece it all together.

            The Watchers council, in town, knowing about him, at the same time some demony law firm practically raises Angelus from the depths?  Not a coincidence.  

            And the tattoo?  He figures it bled due to whatever stuff the lab had put in the blood he drank.  

            Question is…what's the agenda here?  And why is Wolfram and Hart targeting him?  And who the hell are they anyway?

            Now.

            "Okay, what the hell?  The council was looking at the Hellmouth back in the fifties?  Giles never mentioned that," I  state, pacing now, the pj shirt of Angel's that I'm wearing flapping behind me.

            "And…they had stun guns?  Then?  Okay, I think it might be time for a transatlantic phone call."

            I stride toward the phone, but Angel's there, his hand over mine, before I can pick up the reciever.

            "Buffy.  Don't.  Let me finish," Angel tells me, and I sigh, turning back to him.  "What's all this have to do with your tattoo?" I  say.  "It's a great story, but I'm failing to see where you're going with it."

            "I'm almost there, just bear with me, okay?  You asked, remember?"

            "Yeah, yeah," I  grumble, then follows him back to the couch.  "So, Wolfram and Hart and the Watchers council in town.  And…?"

            Then.

            Flying kicks followed by punching.  He's good at that.  The operatives back up, trying to contain him, but it's not working.  He's too fast and too angry.  Which is ironic to him, considering he's there to figure out why they want him so angry.

            "Grab him!  Stun him!  Come on, hurry it up." The operatives shout at each other, trying to rally against the frantic vampire.  

            Angel throws a punch at one, and snarls as the man grabs him by the elbow.  "Let go, idiot.  Give me the answers I want and I might let you live."

            He realizes that his rage is running in overdrive, even though he had dumped the blood that had the hormone in it out.  Weirdly enough, his emotions have gotten wilder in the few days its been since he had the tainted stuff.  And that's not good, for him or the Council operatives he's trying to get information out of.

            A scream of fury assaults his ears, and he's suddenly all over them, hitting, kicking, breaking limbs.  He stops only when the wail is the only noise he can hear.

            One lone operative stands facing him, with his hands clapped over his ears.  Angel shuts his mouth, and the scream stops suddenly.

            He takes a step toward the man, and he drops his weapon, putting his hands in the air.

            "Look!  Angelus, I don't want to die for the council, so I'll tell you everything!  Just don't hurt me," he sobs out, and Angel walks slowly to him, trying to keep his alter ego hidden as long as he can.  Not easy when he's being called by name.

            "What's your connection with Wolfram and Hart?  And what do they want with Angelus?"

            "Nothing we can't get from you ourselves, considering the council has proven so inept."

            They both turn at the sound of the new voice.  A solitary man enters the space, and seems out of place among the unconcious bodies in his pressed suit and with his briefcase.

            "…and you are?"  Angel states, hands shaking with barely contained fury.  _Who cares Angel lets take him _comes the voice inside, and he shakes his head, trying to push it down.

            "I'm Holland Manners.  Pleasure to finally meet you."

TBC.


	5. chapter five

AN:

This final chapter is dedicated with thanks to Leanne from ff.net, who's reviews always brightened my day, and gave me a lot of insight into my writing.  Thanks Leanne, I really appreciate it.

Part five.

Enjoy.

            Angel hesitates, staring at the man, body shaking, anger right at his core.  "…and I would care because…"

            The man sets his briefcase down, and puts out a hand as if to shake.  Angel does not counter with his own.  The man sighs, and puts his hands in his pockets.

            "Look, Angel.  The council being in town was a coincidence.  Really and truly.  Althought it was easy to get them to help us.  They do owe us a few favors.  There was that time with the Mohra demons…not to mention lots and lots of apocalypse prophecies they just can't quite understand.  Like the one that mentions you, for example."

            Angel starts at this, getting a good look at the man finally.  Tall, young, clean cut, pressed suit, short dark hair.  "Okay, Manners, was it?  What exactly do you want from me?"   Hearing the words outloud, Angel's anger is upon him, and he slams the young lawyer into the wall, his forearm resting under Manners' throat.  "I'm tired of playing games.  You put something in the blood.  Some type of hormone, a rage booster.  Why me?  And do you really know who you're dealing with?" he grits out, Angelus roaring with laughter in the little cage in Angel's mind.

            _Bring it on, baby. _

Manners begins to choke out something, and Angel presses a little harder.  "What was that?  I can't quite hear you."

            Manners pushes Angel's arm away from his throat, and gasps out, "You don't know your own place in the world, do you?  How important, what kind of role you'll play?  Or maybe the role Angelus will play?  We're just trying something out, Angel.  Something to help you, help the Watchers.  Will he, or won't he?  And how will it benefit my firm, most importantly?"

            Angel drops his arm, and the man falls to his knees, breathing hard.  He begins to laugh slowly as his breathing returns to normal.

            "All I know is for fifty years I've eaked out an existance away from mortals.  And I really would like to keep it that way…you know of Angelus?  Then you should know how idiotic you are to try and call him up.  It sounds as if you don't even know what role I'm playing in this so called apocalypse.  And when the hell did prophecies start becoming reliable?  And why would a law firm care?  You fools have no idea who you're trifiling with."

            "You're a blind idiot if you don't know who we are, Angel.  We've been here since the beginning.  We'll be here at the end.  Anything remotely evil or immoral, we've got our fingers in.  I've a feeling we've crossed paths before.  We have roots all over the world.  Even in Romania."

            Angel feels what little blood that was in his face drain from it. __

"Enough of these games.  You've proven that you're too dangerous to deal with now.  No matter what the prophecies decree.  But I think you'll be interested in some of the details…maybe not now, but in say, oh, about 47 years?  Stay away from the blood banks.  We won't be contacting you again.  And the Watchers?  They're inept fools.  They can be called off."

            Angel cocks his head at the man, confused.  "Wait a minute.  Didn't you just tell me there was a plan to bring Angelus out, see what he's made of?  See what side I'll play on for your apocalypse?  Why the sudden change of heart?"

            Manners stands, straightening his tie.  "Because, Angel.  This was simply a trial.  A test, if you will.  Now that we know you, and know of your mettle, we don't need to poison you further.  The blood?  Just a prototype.  It's effects will wear off in a few days.  We know you now.  And that's enough.  But I'll need to leave something with you."

            Holland reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small black box.  "I think you'll be wanting this.  Not anytime soon, but…soon enough."  He pitches the box to Angel, who catches it in one hand.  "Be seeing you around, Angel.  Oh, and by the way…"  Manners claps his hands suddenly, and the room becomes darker, if that's possible.  A loud chanting fills the air, and Angel is suddenly swimming in dizzyness and the smell of incense, and he slumps to his side, unable to stand.  He watches as Holland Manners walks out of the room, and his final movement before the blackness takes him is to grip the tiny box in his hand so hard his knuckles ache as his eyes ultimately snap shut. 

            A few days later, and Angel is in an alley behind the local Italian eatery.  Rats scurry by, but not fast enough.  Snap!  Dinner.

            He wipes his mouth, and dejectedly trudges back to the Hyperion.  He's been feeling a bit dodgy lately, and can't figure out why.  The last few days have been a blur to him; he vaguely remembers fighting, but can't remember who or why.

            And then there's the mystery of the black box he discovered in his jacket pocket this morning.

            After opening it, he could only stand and stare, not comprehending where he got it or why he had it in his pocket.

            The small box only contained one item- a silver Claddagh ring like the ones from back home.  He's not sure why, but he feels compelled to hold onto it.  So he has.

            His tattoo seems to be healing nicely, quickly like he expected.  He has the feeling he's missing some vital information, but for the life of him, he can't dredge it up.

            He's getting that restlessness again.  That feeling that something isn't exactly right.  That feeling of wanting to hide all over again.  And he can't shake the guilt.  It's always there, but this time it's so much worse.

            And Angelus feels oh so close right now.  

            He leaves the Hyperion, ostensibly to take a walk, and passes by several loud residents discussing the latest Elvis movie.  He dimly notices as a young woman with dark hair bumps his legs with her suitcase, a square number that seems twice as large as she is.  The bellhop is telling her to go to the second floor, that's where she'll find her room. 

            Mumbling apologies, he brushes past her, and out into the night.

            Now.

            I watch him as he finishes, cocking my head to the side, and I raise my eyebrows.  

            "Wolfram and Hart gave you the Claddagh.  And how is it you remember all this now, and didn't before?"

            He sighs at me, and states, "You know, now that you mention it, I honestly didn't remember any of it until I was telling you.  And that really pisses me off.  They did a mind wipe on me?  Had I known any of this…damn it.  Things could have been…"  he stops, clearly crestfallen. 

            "Angel?  You know…things have always kind of been this way for us.  20/20 hindsight, you know?  I'm sorry- I know its weird to have things happen to you that you tend to…overlook, or to forget.  But that's all passed now.  And you have that tattoo to remind you.  You won't ever forget again."

            He locks his fingers together, gazing down at them.  "They gave me the Claddagh.  47 years before I met you.  All of this was pre planned, Buffy.  All of it.  God."

            I kneel before him, and take his hands in mine.  "Sweetheart, I would have cared a lot last year.  Heck, I would have cared last week.  But so much has changed, and I don't care.  I don't care if some evil beasty wanted us together so it could destroy L.A. or the world.  We won.  And we're still together.  And no spell made me love you.  You made me love you.  And nothing is ever gonna change that.  You're stuck with me, okay?"  I tell him, and some part of me inside thinks, _oh god I hope he feels the same way. _ It's funny after so many years and so many trials together I can still be unsure of him.

            He meets my gaze, and smiles at last, the crooked grin.  "Trust me, I'm okay with that," and he leans forward to meet my lips with his.  Bliss…but there's something missing.  "Angel…if you're gonna do that, you gotta concentrate, okay?  No brooding, no worrying.  Wedding nothwithstanding, you and I have a lot of catching up to do.  This will work itself out, I promise.  And if it doesn't…we have plenty of time and resources to figure it out.  Now, me time!"  

            He laughs, and pulls me to him, and all thoughts of demon law firms, tattoos, drugged blood, and a morose Angel flee my mind as we touch.

            I hope he doesn't ask me about my tattoo. 

Fin. 


End file.
